


I question every part of who I am

by fuckbands



Category: All Time Low
Genre: Although..., Jack is a serial killer I mean they're not the troublesome twosome, Like most of my fic work I have no idea where this is going, Like most of the things I do in my life actually, M/M, Nah I'm just playing, Or am I, Prob gonna add more characters, dub-con, like woah, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckbands/pseuds/fuckbands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is a serial killer with a unhealthy pull towards men his age with brown hair and brown eyes. He always assumed he wouldn't be able to fall for anybody. (Or maybe he's just obsessed.) Either way, he's not going anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wowie. i don't even have any justification for this one. sorry to alex, jack, and any higher powers that are keeping tabs on me

Dark eyes surveyed the home, flicking over the curtains that'd been still for a while now. It was just nearing four in the morning and Jack had been staking out the house for two hours; the lights had gone off an hour ago, plunging the rooms into darkness. All the better for Jack to work in. He notes the modest car in the driveway, the welcome mat on the front porch, the pole in the back yard that yields a flag with a smiley and the words 'smile, kid' printed in large letters underneath. Looks like it should be a regular chump, easy to pin down and fun to dismember. Jack follows the flag's advice as it whips viciously in the wind, snapping sounds parallel with his inner animal, teeth frothing as it strains against the leash. Jack knows he can't wait any longer and slips out of his car onto the sleeping street, heart pounding with anticipation. 

Everybody around him is unconscious, he knows that; but it doesn't stop him casting furtive glances around himself as he crosses the road and sidles around to the side alley, jumping the gate carefully and entering the back yard. He knows the layout of his victims’ houses perfectly, knows where the windows and doors are, knows the rooms. He fiddles expertly with his lock picking tools until there's a subtle click and the door opens, just a crack. He waits a few moments, but when there is no movement or sound from inside he steps into the back lounge, avoiding the creaky floorboard that's slightly to the left of the doorway. He's been in this house before, of course, just to scope it out - waited until his target left for his job at the music store downtown, Flyzik's, before sneaking in and getting a feel for the place. Mapping it out in his mind. Making a plan. He taps lightly on the back of the sofa with one gloved hand, smoothing his fingers along the leather. He really likes this place. 

Moving along the corridor, he meets the bottom of the stairs and takes the first step. Which is, naturally, when the upstairs lights click on and his target comes into view, rubbing across his closed eyes with one hand. Cursing inwardly, Jack backs up, walking backwards silently across the hall and into the kitchen. The moment he hears footsteps on the stairs, he realizes his mistake. When somebody wakes up in the middle of the night their goal is usually one of two; take a piss or get a drink. Jack knows the toilet is upstairs, knows he would've heard the doors, the flushing. Knows that his target's destination is the kitchen, the very room he's hidden himself so stealthily inside. 

His mind churns quickly, because he doesn't have much time. His plan is ruined, so, what now? He can either knock him out and come back another time when everything has settled down, but that runs the risk of law enforcement getting involved, family and friends staying over and, worst of all, Jack having to wait when the urge for violence is already clawing at his insides. Or he could make a break for it now, out of the kitchen and through the front door. But the footsteps are almost at the bottom of the stairs, now, and he'd be seen if he tried. That leaves only one option; abandon everything he'd planned out and just go for it. When he steps into the kitchen, push him back out. Use the momentum to smack his head into the opposite wall. Daze him, drag him into the back lounge away from the street-facing windows and the front door. Lock the back door while he's still getting his bearings. 

He's just solidifying the plan in his mind when the kitchen light flicks on. He doesn't give the man in front of him time to do more than widen his eyes, just barrels into him and sends them crashing against the wall outside of the kitchen. He tries to remember the name of his potential victim, but his head is swimming with adrenaline and his eyes can barely focus. It all goes perfectly - confused and unbalanced, it's easy to drag him into the lounge and throw him onto the hardwood floor. He groans with the impact and Jack steps over him to flick the key clockwise in the door, taking it out and tossing it onto one of the sofas. He notes where it lands, just in case he has to make a quick exit, but he's not too concerned. 

When he gets down onto the ground over him, a knee either side of his waist, he's blinking focus back into his gaze. Jack takes his three favourite knives out of the back of his belt and lays them on the ground next to the poor guy's head. He waits to make eye contact because it's his favourite part - he wants to draw this out as long as possible. Unfortunately, that's when it all goes to shit. The click of the plastic sheaths on the floor seems to activate something in the man underneath him, and it hits Jack that he's made the second fatal mistake of the night - underestimating the victim. "Get off of me," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, voice already rough from the disuse of sleep. "Fuck- what the _fuck-_ " He raises his arms and starts _fighting_ , throwing blind punches that Jack avoids easily. 

The hips under his ass twist and thrash, trying to throw him off, but he's had this before and even if this one has more fight in him than he'd given him credit for he's not going to be put off that easy. "Stop that," He says with boredom thick in his voice, belittling the seriousness of the situation to intimidate the panicking man he's sitting on. After knuckles graze his collarbone, he grabs one wrist and then the other in quick succession, his biceps tightening against the still-frantic movement of the other man's arms. "I said stop," he growls. He feels and sees his chest puff out, knows exactly what he needs all that breath for, and in the same movement one of his hands is slamming both wrists down above his hands and the other is planted hard over his mouth. 

He leans down, looking at the eyes that are squeezed shut against his own gaze. "Alex." He says quietly, and the body underneath him freezes up at the use of his name. Well, at least he got it right. He can't stop the trembling, though. "If you don't stop struggling, I'm going to cut off your fucking arms." That gets through to him, because he goes limp. His wrists relax, hands falling flat against the floor. He's breathing hard through his nose, and while it was a rocky start, Jack is pleased with the current situation. He's got Alex where he wants him. He knows he fits Jack's 'criteria' perfectly - lightly tanned skin, brown hair, brown eyes (he knows that from the photographs) and in his mid twenties. The last four had been the same. Like he said, perfect. He deliberates what to do next, because he needs another hand for a knife but unfortunately, he's only got two and they're occupied. He's just thinking that maybe he should try and tie Alex up, when he opens his eyes. 

He doesn't mean to look at him, not yet, because that's not how he does things. But he does, and their gazes lock, and Jack fucks up _again_. He loses concentration, lets himself get sidetracked. He's lost for a moment in Alex's eyes, as gay as it sounds, and he doesn't know what it is but something in them completely fucks him, dangerously disarming. Turns out a moment is all Alex needs, because he must have felt Jack's grip slacken on his wrists. He takes advantage, impressively quick on the draw, throws both hands forwards and smacks Jack full throttle with both fists. He falls back, cursing, and Alex has yanked his legs out from under Jack, grabbed a knife and shot up the stairs before Jack could even wipe the blood from under his nose. Well, fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack staggers to his feet, swiping his other two knives up along the way. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little pissed off, no matter how pretty Alex was, because nobody had ever actually got a hit in before. He stalks past the stairs to take the front door key and slip it into the pocket of his jeans, half because he wants to give Alex a head-start and half because he doesn't wanna give Alex a chance. Backtracking slowly, he starts up the stairs, one knife tucked back into his belt with the sheath still on and the other sharp and deadly in his right hand. It's dark, because Alex turned the light off, but his eyes have become expertly used to adjusting quickly, and it's only a few moments before he can distinguish between different objects. There are three rooms up here; the master bedroom - Alex's - the bathroom and a spare bedroom. He only takes a quick look into the bathroom, staying by the door to keep a look out; it's plain, the only place you could hide being behind the shower curtain. But it's folded back, the bath is empty and they both know that as a hiding place, that would be painfully obvious and a little insulting to Jack's stalking prowess. He grins in the dark, knowing he's fucked up and not caring all too much. 

This is where he meets difficulty - the two remaining rooms stand next to each other, both with closets and beds and curtains. If he goes into one and Alex is in the other, he'll no doubt exit as soon as Jack is out of sight. All Jack knows is that he can't let this one get away. Thinking the bedroom is too cliche, he quietly slips into the guest room. His soft-sole boots are soundless on the carpet as he treads carefully to the closet. Inching his fingers around the door, he swings it open.... And it creaks. _Loudly._ His hissed curse synchronizes with a crash from the other room and he spins around in time to see a flash of white. He's out of the door in seconds and dives, catching Alex's right ankle and bringing him down. His chest hits the top stair, so close, and he's winded. Even when he's unable to shout for help because he can't get enough air, he's still breathlessly kicking, trying to dislodge Jack's grip. His leg flails out and hits the banister and the only thing between them is Jack's hand.

"Fuck," He snarls, once again in pain, as Alex lurches to his feet and high-tails it down the stairs, grabbing the knife that he'd accidentally thrown on the way down. Jack's had worse, and he's on his feet and in pursuit a second after. When he finally skids to a stop in the hallway, Alex's hands are splayed across the lock and the handle of the front door, desperate. His body stiffens and he turns, slowly, holding the stolen knife in front of him with one hand. It shakes. "Stay the fuck away from me," He says hoarsely, and Jack is sure it was meant to sound threatening but it falls short of the goal. He plucks the front door key out of his pocket, twirls the ring on his finger and tucks it away again. Alex follows the movements with angry, hopeless eyes and Jack smiles arrogantly. Not that he's feeling arrogant. Or confident in any way, in fact - the experience earlier threw him off and now he can't get those eyes out of the forefront of his mind. There they are again, right in front of him, wary and wide and burrowing into him to a place he didn't know existed. 

He shakes it off and rolls his shoulders. "You've gotta understand," he says slowly, taking a step forward and waving his knife around to show how comfortable he was wielding it. _Wear him down,_ Jack. Alex held his own knife a little higher, looking like he wanted to back up further against the door but having nowhere to go. "I can't let you out of this house." Alex swallowed. "Why not?" Jack scoffed and pointed the knife at him. "Why not? Come on, Alex. I know you didn't go to college but you're not a fucking idiot." Alex paled; Jack guessed it was the use of his name and another reminder that Jack had done his research that was freaking him out. "I have a whole file on you, man. I know you've never had a criminal record. Goody two shoes, you get out and the first thing you do is go to the police." "I won't," Alex says quickly, far too quickly, and the lie is written all over his face. Jack shakes his head with a small smile. "I don't care what you say. I know what you'd do. I have a plan, Alex, and you've messed it up enough already. I'm not gonna chase you around this damn house all night." He tilted his head. "Not that we don't have time, but I usually like to be done before dawn." 

Alex's frown deepened and his voice shook when he spoke. "What do you mean we have time?" Jack shrugged. "I emailed your work. Flyzik. Said you felt sick, yada yada, wouldn't be in for a few days. I'll be long gone by then." Alex's bottom lip quivered and he bit into it, hard. There were a few seconds of eye contact and then a dog's bark tore through the 4.30am silence. Alex jumped and looked back out of the door's window reflexively, giving Jack the chance he needed. Bounding forward, he pinned Alex against the door and grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife, slamming it hard against the wood. Alex yelped and tried to twist his wrist, but the knife missed Jack's hand. He squeezed until he was sure he could feel Alex's bones grinding together, hitting the wrist against the door another time for good measure. The knife clattered to the ground and he forced Alex to turn around, wrestling his arms behind him and pressing his knife to his throat. God, but this guy could fight. 

Panting, he pressed against him hard. "Not a sound," He said, low in his throat, hyper-aware of how close Alex was to the outside world, how he'd only have to shout once for some health nut out for a sunrise run to hear him. For a few minutes they just stood, both getting their breath back. Alex's back was warm against his chest and Jack closed his eyes, trying to pretend that this was a more domestic situation. What? He had the impulse to kill, but that didn't mean he was completely devoid of emotion. He trailed the blade against the skin of Alex's throat, so light that it barely grazed him. A shudder wracked his body and Jack heard the whimper he tried to swallow. "W-why are you doing this?" He asked, and there it was. _The_ question. The one everybody wanted to ask, but most didn't get the chance to. 

"It’s a constant itch," He started slowly, "That I can temporarily get rid of... With this." Alex made a defeated sound. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not alone." Alex shook his head as best he could against the door. "I don't wanna know," He gasped, wrists still pulling, trying to get free of Jack's hand. But Jack was practiced, had height and weight on Alex, and wasn't going to let him slip away for the third time. He rested his forehead on Alex's shoulder for a moment, felt the muscles tense up even more under the pressure. "Why aren't you doing this?" Alex whispered, and Jack looked up. Now _that_ was unexpected. "What?" He frowned, confused, and Alex blew out a long, trembling breath. "You pinned me down, you chased me, you threatened me. Now you've got me caught again, but you're not doing anything. Why?" The last word was almost inaudible, probably because he was scared of the answer. Jack stepped back, grabbing the knife off of the floor, and Alex turned quickly with terrified eyes. Terror he tried to hide, but he didn't really succeed. It didn't excite Jack like usual. It just made him feel guilty, and what the fuck? "I... I don't know," He answered. Honestly. What the _fuck_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has like a non-con kiss at the end but that's it okay. all of this is without beta so pls remember u can drop a comment for improvements or criticism or anything

With a knife at his throat, Alex becomes a lot more co-operative, and it's easy to walk him back into the lounge. He has him sit against the back of the sofa, ties his wrists together, looping the rope around one of his feet. He feels eyes on him as he settles down in front of Alex, legs crossed with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his fists. "So," he starts slowly, because they've got a few hours and maybe if he gets this weird, thirsty curiosity out of his system then he'll be able to get around to the killing part of his routine. Then he notices the movement of Alex's arms, slow, muscles bunching in his forearms and shakes his head. "I wouldn't bother," he advises him matter-of-factly, and Alex's eyes snap up to meet his. He blinks a few times, then gestures to the sofa. "It's- I bolted it to the floor last time I was here. It was part of my plan, y'know?" Alex swallows and it looks like he's fighting not to start shaking again. "You've been in my house before?" He whispers, and Jack shrugs. "Dude," Alex almost recoils at the informality of it, like killers don't speak like normal people. " _Nothing_ goes right without preparation. I know this house back-to-front, man, I can tell you where you last had those dumb beer socks." Alex presses his lips together and tips his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes and looking like he's trying to remember how to breathe. 

"Open your eyes," Jack snaps and Alex does, reflexively, confusion mixing with the fear in his eyes for just a moment, and Jack hurries to cover up his quickly growing obsession. "Can't have you passing out now, not when I want you to..." He spreads his hands in a generalised gesture. "Tell me about yourself." Alex's eyes narrow and his voice has almost lost the tremble from earlier. "Why?" He tries for aggressive, misses his mark. "Apparently you have a file on me. Just consult that." A corner of Jack's mouth quirks up at his cutting tone. Spunky. _Awesome_. "I mean things that I don't know. Like... What's your favourite ice cream flavour?" Alex snorts weakly. "Favourite song?" He gets a cold look in response and sighs, picking up one of his knives. Alex stiffens because he doesn't know that this is just for show. Doesn't know that inexplicably, with every passing minute, Jack's desire to cut his throat and watch those fucking eyes slip into a dead stare lessens.

"Listen, Lex. Can I call you Lex?" Alex shakes his head robotically, eyes on the knife, and Jack shrugs in dismissal. "You're under my control right now, Lex. 'Kay? I have a knife- well, three of them- and you're tied to your furniture. You can't get away unless I let you, and I could kill you with a flick of my wrist. That means that it's in your best interest," he jabs the tip of the knife in Alex's direction and he flinches, "to go along with whatever I say. Whenever I say it. Capische?" Jack sees the idea of rebellion warring with survival instinct behind Alex's eyes and presses the tip of the knife into the wood flooring. The conflict dies, and Alex grits his teeth. "Cherry garcia," he mutters finally, and vague flashes of grocery store freezers light up in Jack's mind. He makes a mental note, though he has no idea in hell why. "And right now it's probably- probably Everlong-" 

"Foo Fighters?" Jack interrupts with a grin and Alex looks like a tiny, tiny rabbit in very large, very bright headlights. "What?" He scoffs, affronted. "Just because I break into people's houses at night with the intent to kill them I can't have good music taste?" Alex just stares. "Okay, that was kinda distasteful. I get it." He spins the knife between his hands, drilling it slightly into the floor. "I'm really sorry about all this." He looks up from under his eyelashes to meet a gaze that's part scared, part questioning. "This," he repeats, looking pointedly at the knife and then at Alex. "Not being able to kill you straight away. Not putting you out of your misery." Alex looks incredulous. "You're apologizing for that?" He asks weakly, wrists pulling instinctively at his binds. "Well if I had my shit together, this would all be over by now. You'd be dead. I'd be just about getting done..." He winces uncharacteristically, never one to be fazed by blunt phrasing before, "you know. Disposing of you." 

Alex shivers and he frowns, about to open his mouth. "Don't," Jack warns, "don't ask me why. You've already asked me once, twenty minutes ago - I didn't know then, and I don't know now." He rubs his hands together almost anxiously, knife left beside him, unsheathed in case he needs it. "If you'll pretend that this isn't the most cliché thing you've ever heard, you're _different_. From the others. I thought you were just the average deal. I was going to be in and out of here in thirty minutes. And then you looked me in the eyes, and..." He trails off in frustration, and when he meets those eyes, Alex's eyes, he feels inferior for the first time in his life. He's always been the powerful one; the one with the knife, the bigger guy, taller, more dominant. And then here comes Alex Gaskarth, victim number five, a _nobody_ , looks right into his fucking soul with no warnings or fanfare, makes Jack feel like he's stripped bare. Doesn't take away the need to hurt, to dig in blunt nails and squeeze or pin down frightened prey, oh no, but he _soothes the itch_. And that's it. 

A laugh bursts out of Jack, abrupt and seemingly random. Alex obviously shits himself, looking at Jack with wide eyes, wrists pulling again. "Y-you're an ointment," He chuckles helplessly through his words and Alex eyes him like he's a fucking psycho. Which he is, to be fair, but right now he's feeling a strange sort of clarity. Alex doesn't scratch at the itch to kill, he doesn't rake his fingertips against it and chase it out of his body. He smothers it, numbs it. Instead of giving Jack the satisfaction of temporary relief, Alex and his eyes let Jack pretend there isn't an itch at all. "Wow," he says breathlessly, when the giggles subside. His eyes flick up and he doesn't know what Alex sees in them, but whatever it is presses him back against the sofa. And Jack-

Jack doesn't know what he's doing. Like a man possessed he pushes himself silently to his knees, moves forward until he's between Alex's legs where they're splayed, relaxed position a contrast against the rest of his... Well, everything. He looks down at the currently mute man and eases himself down onto his heels. Face to face, now, he brings his hand up, frowning with a disappointed kind of understanding when Alex flinches away from the brush against his arm. His fingertips meet warm skin again at the base of Alex's skull, and before he can pull away Jack's fingers are twisted deep in his messy, sleep-ruined hair, tight against his scalp. He pulls, forcing Alex's head back and the slightly older man makes a small noise of discomfort and vague panic. His breathing, open mouthed, is upset by tremors again; he's afraid, afraid of whatever Jack is about to do, confused and helpless. It makes him even more irresistible to a sick minded individual like Jack, who has surged forwards and pressed his mouth against Alex's before he could take another shaking breath.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this is the one with the dub-con (i say dub-con 'cause there's a little bit of alex like... seemingly... idk man, idk, even i didn't dig deeply enough into that) i didn't tag it as non-con because it's complicated but it BASICALLY IS. a non-con handjob. so if u don't like that, feel free to absolutely skip this chapter! all that happens is a lot of eye contact and weird feeling and (SPOILER AS HELL) he lets alex go

He feels how Alex tries to turn his head and can't because of the hand in his hair, eyes open and desperately angry gaze stuck on Jack's like there's a physical connection stopping either of them from looking away. He feels how at first his whole body is tense, jaw tight as Jack's other hand fits - perfectly - against the side of his face. He feels how it gradually goes slack, dull and submissive with a quietly defeated noise. Jack runs the tip of his tongue lightly against Alex's top lip and pulls away, thumb pressing against his bottom lip and dragging, just slightly. There's a pink tinge in Alex's cheeks that hasn't been captured in any of the photos he's collected over the past several weeks. Jack decides he quite likes it, chases it with his fingertips and relishes the way the blood disappears from under the points of pressure like it's making a path across Alex's skin just for him. Alex's eyes are on his mouth, heavy lidded with exhaustion and surrender. Jack presses his lips once more to Alex's mouth, and this time there is such little resistance he can let himself imagine the slightest reciprocation.

"I want to touch you," he breathes, sudden, surprising even himself with the abruptness of it. And he does. He wants to touch Alex the way he hasn't touched anybody in his whole life; intimately. From his teenage years until now all it's ever been is cheap hookers and drunk one night stands - he had always without fault left before his temporary distraction was even close to consciousness. "T-touch me?" Alex asks, eyes becoming more alert once again, dread in his voice so thick Jack can almost feel it on his tongue, but he pretends it's an invitation and lets his touch skate down, down the front of Alex's worn and oversized tshirt until it stops short at the waistband of his pajama pants. He shifts back sharply, but there's nowhere he can go and Jack's hand is only suspended for a moment before it takes back the inch of space and his fingers hook around the edge of the fabric. 

"Don't," Alex says, a weak command, voice pleading and Jack wants to be moral, wants to be _right_ , wants to listen to what somebody tells him for once in his life. But he doesn't, because the need to see the rest of Alex's skin flush with scarlet is urging him on. "Don't worry," he soothes, and Alex shakes his head vehemently, straining against his ties. "Don't, don't you-" his breath comes out fast and he thrashes once, fiercely, before he realizes the futility and slumps back against the sofa. Jack's fingers meet warm skin and Alex's jaw clenches so tightly that Jack watches a muscle jump just under the surface. "Stop," Alex's voice is slow, quiet, but there's lightning in his eyes and in a split second he's drawn in a breath and punches it out along with a loud, "don't _touch me_!" Or rather, he would have shouted it, but just as his volume is about to peak on the second word there's a hot palm over his mouth again and Jack's free hand isn't so free anymore. 

Alex shakes his head again and makes a muffled noise under Jack's hand but he strokes his thumb lightly against the skin under Alex's chin and brings their foreheads together for a moment. Bringing his hand away from Alex's crotch and to his mouth, he watches the brief flare of hope in Alex's eyes fade as he licks his palm, slicks it with saliva and returns it to its original destination. "I'll make it good," he promises earnestly as his hand closes around Alex, and then Jack sees something - for all the anger and fear in Alex's eyes, there's something else. Just a hint of- of... Guilt? Before he can even ascertain whether it was there or not, the brown haired man's head thumps back against the leather sofa, head twisting away and eyes squeezing shut as Jack settles into a steady pace. Even against his will, it doesn't take long before Alex is hard and the breaths through his nose are becoming laboured, hot against Jack's fingers. 

_That_ is what Jack wanted to see. The flush from Alex's cheeks spreads across the bottom half of his face, creeps over the hard line of his jaw, races down the column of his throat and across his chest. He's flushing with blood, flushing with _life_ , with _vitality_ , because of Jack, and even though he's normally playing the opposite game... It makes him feel good. With each gentle twist of his wrist he gives on the upstroke, Alex is becoming more and more responsive, hips jolting just slightly every several seconds, low sounds vibrating in his throat. The corners of his tightly closed eyes shine and Jack would bet his last dollar that it was frustration, anger at Jack for doing this to him, anger at himself for responding to it. Jack is still mulling over what he'd seen in Alex's sharp gaze, that hot spike of maybe-guilt that leaves Jack wondering just how against this Alex was. Best not to linger, however, on something that could make Jack sloppy. He takes the hand on Alex's mouth away just as he lets his thumb slide lightly against the head of his dick, and the first noise that comes out of his mouth is that of a shuddering gasp. "Please, p-please," he just barely gets out, and his thighs are trembling. 

His head lolls to the opposite side, and the tension in his eyelids dissipates as they open. With difficulty, because his pupils are blown wide and he can barely focus on Jack's face. His mouth is open, but he's not shouting for help, he's not shouting at Jack, he's just _panting_. He makes a few breathy sounds, closes his mouth and swallows and tries a second time. "Please, man," he whimpers, and Jack is about to ask please _what_ when he speaks again. "Please don't- I can't- not _you_ ," he falters through his sentence and Jack doesn't understand, gets that curious, hopeful feeling again. He keeps his hand moving, tightens his grip slightly and moves his thumb so it's constantly moving against the underside of his dick. Alex makes a sound, then, high and accidental, almost _needy_ , and it spurs Jack on like nothing else. 

He uses his free hand to gently take a hold of Alex's chin and turn his head so he's facing forwards. "Look at me, Alex, look at me," he murmurs, touching his forehead against the older man's again, and Alex's eyes roll slightly before they concentrate on Jack's. They're so close, breathing the same air, and it's making Jack dizzy. Alex's breaths are hitching, and Jack can't see but he feels his hips moving up into Jack's hand of their own accord, uncontrollable and desperate. Alex takes one sharp breath, then another, lets it out in a high noise that delves low into a wrecked moan as his hips buck, satisfyingly carnal. Jack's hand slows until Alex is whimpering with the overstimulation, and he pulls his hand carefully out of Alex's pants and wipes it on his jeans, still looking Alex in the eyes. 

As Alex comes down, getting his breath back, his eyes clear and Jack sees the reality of what just happened hit him like a brick. This time, he definitely looks guilty. Jack can see it clear as day. When they're looking at each other, silent, assessing, he makes a decision. A stupid decision. A fucking ridiculously dumb, monumentally unintelligent decision. He disappears out of the room and returns after a couple of minutes and a quick jog around the house with a kitchen knife held in a dishcloth. Monumentally stupid this certain choice may be, but he's aware that fingerprints exist. He picks up his knives and sheathes the bare one, tucks them into his waistband. Alex is watching him with a creased brow, and Jack wonders if he's worked it out yet. He puts the knife in one of Alex's bound hands, watches his eyes widen impossibly, presses a chaste kiss to the top of his head. He's letting Alex go.


End file.
